“Is this too much, Ma?” I asked, holding up the Whitney Houston cassette tape. “I think people will make fun of me.”
“You will never be too much. You will never be too little, Bernard. You be you.” My heart fluttered hearing her say that.
“Really?” I sat cross-legged amongst the other cassette tapes, all possible song choices for the school talent show. None of the songs were newer than 1995. They were all Mom’s tapes, from her days growing up in Cavite, back in the Philippines. “What about Michael Jackson?”
“Everyone does Michael Jackson.” Ma continued sewing pink sequins on my halter top. She repositioned her ivory bracelets higher on her forearm so they wouldn’t clink.
“Frank Sinatra?”
“You are performing for children. Not the old folks’ home.” We giggled. “Anak, why not Whitney Houston? Why are you doubting yourself?”
“Because Whitney is a girl.”
“So?”
“People will say I shouldn’t sing it because I’m a boy.”
Ma held my face. “You’re so much more than a boy, Bing.” My eyes welled up. I thought for a second I would tell her about the kiss Hakim and I shared, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Tell me. What, in your own words, is this song about?”
“She really wants to dance. And she hopes the person she likes will dance with her.”
“Have you ever wanted to dance with somebody?” My face grew hot. She poked my soft tummy. “Ha? Have you?” I smiled shyly and folded my hand over her fingers. It tickled.
“Yes, Ma.”
“Okay. See? Then does it matter if you’re a boy or girl?”
“No, Ma.” I held up the cassette tape. “But how will we play this? Our tape deck isn’t loud enough.” I pointed to our outdated boom box with intermittently dysfunctional speakers.
“Just relax, ha? I will figure things out.”
She used her teeth to cut the fuchsia thread and held the halter top against my torso. “Looking good. Okay, try it on, and we can test the tuxedo.”
I did as I was told. First, the halter top. She helped me slip the sleeves of my white shirt on from behind, then the tuxedo jacket. I felt like one of those bullfighters in Spain that I saw in a documentary once. It was like a ritual, putting on all the special gear while the family looks on, watching and crying. That was my mom, getting all teary eyed dressing me up. Her little fighter.
“You know, you remind me of your Tito Ferdie. He was brave, like you. I knew he was different when we played together.” I thought about Tito Ferdie lying in his casket while we prayed his soul away. “He even had a boyfriend, you know? Or girlfriend. I don’t know what you would call him. At the funeral, he stood to the side and cried. He cried and cried and cried. We all pretended he wasn’t there.” She looped the bowtie around my neck and began tying it into a perfect bow. “I wish I was brave like you and had said hello to him. To show him I could see him. To show him I cared.”
She wiped her tears away, then repositioned me in front of our hallway closet mirror. We both looked at my reflection, satisfied. Ma nodded her head, her bottom lip pursed and proud.
“Wow, naman. Okay. Are you ready?” I nodded yes. I grabbed the lapels of my tuxedo jacket and pulled. The Velcro she sewed into the back seams busted loose perfectly. I tossed it to the side.
“Now the shirt, Bing.” I tore open the Velcro releases along the button front with ease. We high-fived each other.
I appreciated her embellishments to my costume. You always need a little help from Velcro. It’s not like in the movies, when people rip their clothes off easily. I knew this, because my daddy once ripped my shirt and he almost choked me, trying. It was around that time he started chipping away at our apartment wall. “There’s someone talking in there,” he told us, inspecting each piece of drywall for a clue.
The day he ripped my shirt, he had asked me to remove a spike from the back of his neck. “It’s there. It’s there. Just look. Use your eyes, Bing.” I looked. I did as he asked me. I touched his bare neck. I saw nothing.
“You have it, too! We all have it. Just take mine out, and I’ll take out yours.”
I cried, quietly. He flipped me around violently to look at the back of my neck. He tried to rip the back of my T-shirt off, searching for a spike that wasn’t there. This tightened the collar around my neck, and I choked.
“Daddy! Daddy! No!” I managed to cough out.
He dropped me to the ground. Both of us were out of breath. His hand went to the back of his neck again, confused. He went into the washroom and did not leave until Ma came home hours later.
“So, what do you think?” Ma looked at my reflection and shifted the halter top.
“Thank you, Ma.” I gave her a kiss. She looked at me like she could see the memory in my eyes and embraced me hard, the cool of her ivory bracelets on my cheeks.
The night of the performance, Ma massaged my earlobes like she always did when I was nervous. But something was different.
“Where are your bracelets?”
“What bracelets?”
I looked at the new karaoke machine at her feet. I looked at her empty wrists.
“Where did this come from?”
“Listen, ha? You need to relax. Tita Mae is out there. The whole gang is out there. Just have fun. We will be cheering for you.”
Between knowing my mother sold her bracelets for me and the possibility I’d be beaten up for being a girl, I worried I’d made a mistake. Maybe Ma could still trade out the Whitney Houston cassette for the Frank Sinatra one. Maybe I could improvise my choreography. Maybe the audience would sing along loudly enough they wouldn’t notice that I didn’t know the lyrics.
But then the curtains slid open. I could feel the heat of the lights on my scalp. I switched the microphone on. Showtime. The music started. With my back still to the audience, I did chest isolations to the beat of the syncopated rhythm. It was like my ribs broke through something. Something like a wall. Something like the crash of waves. My right hip joined in the isolations, up and down with the sound of the synth. And just as I began singing into the microphone, I expanded my chest—flat enough that you could place a coffee cup on it, Ma instructed—and pivoted around to face the audience.
There was no turning back now. Sweat dribbled down the end of my nose. I could hear from the speakers the sound of my feminine voice. My truth.
I could see confusion. The audience was wondering if I was lip syncing or singing. But my fancy trills confirmed everything. This was all me.
“Naaaks namaaan!” I heard Ma scream from the audience. I remembered the last time she screamed. “Liiiisssen, anak. We have to leave here. It’s no longer safe.”
I pumped my shoulders left and right. I pointed at stunned audience members. Ma had instructed me to walk along the lip of the stage with my hand extended to give high-fives to my adoring fans. But there were none. Just bewildered school band members. My voice cracked slightly at the thought of possible failure.
“Go to your room!” I remembered Daddy yelling at me after he had placed his hand in the hot frying pan on purpose. He held his blistering skin, screaming, “You ugly little boy. GO! Get out!”
Then the familiar chorus started. I gestured for everyone to clap along. They did. In waves, the adults got up from their seats and clapped too.
I grabbed the lapels on my tuxedo jacket, held my breath, and tugged hard. I threw it into the audience at Hakim who twirled it like a prize he’d just won. Everyone was standing and clapping to the beat.
It was time to take things down a notch with the bridge. I dropped to both knees, singing into the microphone as I wanted to sing into Hakim’s ear. I sang of searching for a dance partner. Somebody to hold me. Somebody who loves me. The audience leaned in, wondering what was to happen next.
I remembered the trip to the zoo. “Open up your lunches. This beached whale needs to be fed.” Aiden taunting me, as I cowered on the floor of the bus, helpless and crying.
Just as the chorus began again, I jumped to my feet, ripped off my button-up shirt and revealed my pink-sequined halter top. Everyone cheered. Under the auditorium lights, I felt the sweat on my bare arms both cooling and accumulating. Riding the wave of a sustained note, I felt my insides shine like a light beaming from my throat and through every finger. Truth. Truth. It felt like confetti. It felt like running. It felt like screaming. Me. Truth. Truth.
I ended with my fist in the air, my eyes closed. I could hear everyone on their feet, cheering for me. I could also hear my own breathing. Deep, like I was touching something way up high. The lights shone on my face. It felt so good to be me.